Admirable Likenesses
by Fialleril
Summary: Sherlock is bored. John suffers the consequences. Mrs. Hudson is just concerned for her wall. Based on the parody J.M. Barrie wrote for Arthur Conan Doyle.


Disclaimer: None of this is mine, not even the plot idea. That belongs to J.M. Barrie, who did it first and better. I've just brought it into this new modern Holmes universe.

Notes: As mentioned, this was inspired by a clever little Holmes parody that J.M. Barrie wrote for Arthur Conan Doyle. The parody itself is in the public domain, and I've posted it on my livejournal (link in my profile) if you're curious. The pertinent quote is this:

_It was his custom of a summer evening to fire round my head, just shaving my face, until he had made a photograph of me on the opposite wall, and it is a slight proof of his skill that many of these portraits in pistol shots are considered admirable likenesses.  
_- J.M. Barrie, **The Adventure of the Two Collaborators**

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**Admirable Likenesses**

A faint hum of aggravation from his flatmate was all the warning John got before a bullet grazed just shy of his left cheek and buried itself in the wall behind him. As it was, he was fortunate that he had such a steady head for gunfire; if he'd flinched even a centimetre, he might have been dead.

Very slowly, he laid aside the medical journal he'd been reading and turned toward his flatmate, who was leveling the pistol on him again. "Sherlock," he said. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Bored," said Sherlock shortly, and fired again.

"And so you're trying to kill me?" It was surprisingly difficult to express adequate anger and disbelief when he couldn't actually move for fear of being shot.

"No," Sherlock huffed, and this time he fired three times in rapid succession. John noted, somewhat detached, that his aim shifted just slightly each time. All of the shots were still entirely too close to his head for comfort.

"Well then what are you doing?" he demanded. "Because it certainly seems like you're trying to kill me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said absently, as though he couldn't be bothered to give his full attention to John's question. "I have excellent aim." He'd now paused briefly and was reloading the pistol, and John made to get up and, hopefully, disarm him. Sherlock stopped him with a look. "Don't move," he said.

Against his better judgement, John didn't.

He sat through another series of too-close-for-comfort shots, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the nutter who seemed to be tracing the outline of his head with bullets. It was better than what he would see if he closed his eyes.

Finally, Sherlock set the pistol down on the coffee table and collapsed with a huff into the chair. "Still bored," he said with distaste.

John stared. "Do you want to tell me what that was about?" he asked, angry, incredulous, and (just a little) mourning the relative peace in which he'd been reading his journal before the shooting started.

Sherlock waved an eloquent and, frankly, lazy hand in the vague direction of the wall at John's back. He didn't bother to answer.

With a growl John turned and looked at the wall.

There was a perfect silhouette of himself engraved in bullet holes in the wallpaper.

"Art," said Sherlock behind him, in the same tone that most people might say "rubbish." He gave a considering hum. "It is a rather good likeness, though."

John was saved from attempting a reply by a half-horrified, half-delighted squeak coming from their doorway. Mrs. Hudson stood there, her hands clasped at her mouth, her eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock and the portrait in pistol that marred her wall.

"Oh, _Sherlock_," she said. John had the distinct impression of a woman telling her very small child that he really mustn't draw on the wall with his crayons. She glanced at John this time, and her eyes seemed just a bit too knowing. She turned back to Sherlock with a sigh. "It was very sweet of you, dear, and I'm sure John appreciates the sentiment. But, _really_, Sherlock, you can't keep doing this to my walls!"

Sherlock huffed. "Oh don't be so dramatic," he said, slouching listlessly in his chair. "You'll take it out of my rent, I'm sure."

"Well, yes, but—" Mrs. Hudson began.

"Good," said Sherlock languidly. "That's all settled, then. And anyway, it's artistic."


End file.
